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“Give me the brown ham,” she repeated, “or
you will fare badly.”
“I would rather give it to the magpies than to
such a one as you.”
The old woman shook with a storm of fury.
She stretched the rune stick above her head and
swung it round wildly, her lips muttered strange
words, her hair rose on her head, her eyes blazed,
and her face was contorted.
“You shall the magpies eat—they shall eat you,”
she screamed at last. And she turned away,
mumbling curses and swinging her stafF. She turned
homeward; she went no farther south on that occasion,
for the daughter of the mountain had executed the
errand on which she had come from the hills.
Countess Märta stood still on the terrace and
laughed at the ungovernable råge of the old
beggar; but the laugh died suddenly on her lips, for
there they came. She could not believe her eyes.
She thought she must be dreaming. But there they
were, the magpies that were to eat her.
They flew toward her from park and garden,
scores of magpies, with their claws extended and
their beaks outstretched. They came with noise
and laughter and black and white wings gleaming
before her eyes, and behind them she saw all the
magpies of the neighborhood swarming, and all the
sky was filled with their black and white bodies.
Their polished, metallic feathers shone in the sharp
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